Can we turn the danse macabre on its head?
A rhythm stirs, soft but sure—
I feel it pulling, unfamiliar, yet—
Is it sweeter than the songs I knew before?
All-encompassing this thing I want in its stead,
But does it not steal, as fires do?
One hand clasps mine, trembling tight,
Another waits, unspoken, half in shadow.
Her voice—new—this summer whispers of spring.
Each step I take draws ever into beauty,
Is it the scent of her absence that I follow, or the dream of her arrival?
I can no longer tell nor deserve
Love not death.
Life not hate.
Or is it life that burns too bright?
And love that ends with trembling hands?
So, onwards, guiding star, onwards
We watch the moon sail out,
Over our city,
And we fly.
We are Chagall’s Lovers.